


crashing the net

by achilleees



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently locked down to a five-year contract, Chuck Hansen is just getting comfortable as the superstar captain of an elite hockey team. Only, that's when the team's general manager trades for the incredibly talented but inconsistent goalie Raleigh Becket, who appears to have no ambition whatsoever. And Chuck’s pretty driven, to put it nicely. Clearly they have some stuff to teach each other - and quick, because the Stanley Cup playoffs are just about to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crashing the net

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the indefinite future and has no relation to current teams.
> 
> There’s a certain degree of suspension of disbelief you need to read this fic, mostly that all the PacRim guys are physically suited towards ice hockey. And mentally suited, in the case of Newt and Hermann. Maybe they just play hockey to make enough money to do bizarre science experiments in the off-season, I dunno.
> 
> LOOK JUST GO WITH IT.
> 
> Also, suspend disbelief regarding players names, because I wanted to have the Kaiju as the bad guys, but really, how often do you hear of people named Knifehead or Slattern? Take it in stride, I guess.
> 
> ***READ THIS: Most important note, aka the disclaimer about hockey: I tried to make it accessible to people who don’t know anything about hockey, but Raleigh thinks like a hockey player, occasionally lapsing into terminology that may confuse you. Essential thing: _you don’t need to understand it_. The gist will always be clear, even if you personally don’t know what a penalty kill is, or what it means to go five-hole. 
> 
> Here’s the test. If you read the following paragraph and find it to be so baffling and esoteric that it breaks up the flow of your reading and disrupts your enjoyment, it’s a sign. If you can read it and shrug it off, then keep reading and enjoy!
> 
> “No wonder other teams always played the dump-and-chase game with them. Newts and Manny in particular never fought for the puck along the boards, and Gags had a nasty habit of keeping his head tucked when he moved into the neutral zone. Raleigh wasn’t gonna say anything, though. It wasn’t anything they, or the Coach, didn’t already know.”
> 
> (Also I made a basic terminology [cheat sheet](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/post/68753372837/hockey-terminology-index-companion-to-crashing-the). I would recommend glancing through it even if you’re pretty confident about your hockey vocab, just to be sure we’re on the same page).
> 
> [FANMIX](http://semantiks.livejournal.com/3913.html) done by the lovely imsomnikat. Check it out, for real. Lotta upbeat rock music, very hockey-esque. I approve wholeheartedly. 
> 
> [ART](http://lokefanart.tumblr.com/post/64569233984/hockey-au-or-the-most-boring-hockey-jersey-ever) and [MORE ART](http://lokefanart.tumblr.com/post/66389344462/for-achilleees-hockey-au-i-promised-to-draw) done by the fantastic lokeloke. Also imbedded in the text. Go tell her how awesome it is, alright?

 

[Prologue]

“You call him.”

“No, you.”

“You.”

“You.”

“You.”

“Both of you are wusses,” Tendo said, plucking the cell phone from Newt’s fingers as he tried to force it back into Hermann’s hands for the eighth time. “I’ll do it.”

Hermann had the good grace to look sheepish, while Newt merely grinned. “Thanks, Elvis.”

“Keep that up, and I’ll drop you off at his house and make you tell him in person,” Tendo said crossly as he held the phone to his ear.

Five rings later and he was beginning to think that Chuck wasn’t going to answer, but at the last moment, there came a click and a breathless, “Hey?”

“Just got back from working out?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. Chuck was so predictable, it was cute.

“Fuck off,” Chuck muttered. A clattering on the other end told Tendo that Chuck was digging around in his refrigerator for one of those awful protein drinks he bought by the case. He wondered absently if he knew his young captain a little _too_ well. Sure enough, only after he had guzzled half the bottle did Chuck continue, “I needed to distract myself.”

Tendo sighed, losing the smile. Here came the part that Newt and Hermann had been so dreading. “You may want to put a hold on showering, then.” Chuck always worked out to vent his emotions, and if Tendo knew anything about him, his captain was going to be _pissed_ at the forthcoming news.

“That bad?” Chuck asked, trepidation in his voice.

Tendo decided to cut to the chase. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “We lost Torch, Puck, Tams, and Caser.”

Silence from the other end.

“I think it’s going well,” Newt remarked to Hermann, right before the explosion.

“Caser?!” Chuck snapped, all fire and fury. “They traded _Caser_? What, because he flaked out in Game 7? What the fuck – do they know how amazing he was to get us to Game 7 in the first place? This is _bullshit_!”

“I know, Hanners, I know,” Tendo said, trying to pacify him, but Chuck wouldn’t be soothed.

“That’s fucking shit.” Something shattered on his end, and Tendo winced. “He didn’t deserve that. He’s fucking incredible, and we’re giving him up because of the ignorant tools who only notice his few losses instead of the fact that we got all the way to Game 7 of the fucking Semifinals with him as our goalie. _Shit_.” There was a thud as he slammed something into the wall. Tendo hoped it wasn’t his fist – dealing with an injured first-line center on top of the trades was more than the Rangers could handle this season.

“Calm down,” he said, trying to inject some authority into his tone. It must have worked at least somewhat, because Chuck stayed quiet, broodingly listening. “You’re looking at this wrong. We didn’t trade him because we didn’t want him – we traded him because the Flyers wanted him desperately enough to trade us Jin and Cheung Wei for him and Tams. Do you know what we can do with a pair of wingers like that? Jesus, Hanners, think about it. Stacker isn’t thinking about winning us _games_ , he’s thinking about the fucking Stanley Cup! With them, we might be able to do it.”

“Not without another goalie,” Chuck pointed out, rightly enough. “Freezer isn’t enough to hold together the team on his own. Who’d we trade for?”

Tendo coughed.

“Who is it.” Chuck said, though it didn’t sound like he really wanted to know. “Just tell me.”

“Raleigh Becket,” Tendo said, quiet.

Another long, pregnant moment of silence.

“This is probably a bad sign, huh,” Newt said.

Chuck’s roar drowned out Hermann’s reply. “Raleigh Becket? Are you fucking with me? We traded Adam fucking Casey for _Raleigh Becket_? Tell me this is some kind of sick prank, because I fucking quit if it’s not.”

“Shut up, you’re not quitting,” Tendo said, rolling his eyes at his captain’s melodrama. “You know as well as I that Raleigh has the potential to be the best goaltender in the league –”

“If he started taking the game seriously and stopped slacking off and losing important games because he doesn’t give a shit.” Chuck gave a cry of despair. “I’ve read it, Tender. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Everyone knows he’s good – especially him, so he doesn’t even try. I can’t play with a goalie who doesn’t care. Fuck. Fuck!” His voice broke on the last word, and badly.

Tendo didn’t have to close his eyes to envision Chuck right then, sitting on the kitchen floor, knees drawn up to his chest, back to the wall. He would have his head sunk into his hands, gripping his hair in white knuckled fists, because (as they all knew) hockey was his life, his whole fucking life, and to be told that their new goalie was the man who had earned the unofficial title of ‘The Most Talented Paperweight in the NHL’ for the amount of effort he seemed to put into games was crushing him to pieces.

Nobody loved hockey the way Chuck loved it, like it was the only job he ever wanted to have, the only thing to put a smile on his face, the very air he breathed. Nobody was good like him either, the best player the hockey world had seen in decades, destined for greatness from the moment he had first laced up his skates. And to be saddled with a goalie who had been quoted as saying, “I dunno, hockey’s fun but I wouldn’t say it’s my _calling_ ” was painful to him on so many levels.

Tendo chewed on the corner of his lip. “Look,” he said softly, “Stacker knows what he’s doing. If he thought it was worthwhile to trade Caser for Becket, he must have had a reason for it. Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

“Maybe,” Chuck said, but his tone was a sheet of ice, flat and cold and unforgiving. “I’m going running.”

He hung up before Tendo could remind him not to overwork himself, and Tendo sighed as he put down the phone.

“Could have gone worse?” Newt shrugged, smiling wide.

“I envy your optimism,” Tendo muttered.

 

On the morning of the first practice with his new team, Raleigh was midway through locking up his car when he was hit with an overwhelming certainty that he was about to vomit. He fumbled his pack of cigarettes out of his gear bag, lighting it with shaking hands, and took a drag. The nicotine calmed his nerves and, more importantly, tamed the nausea, until he was relatively sure he wasn’t going to blow chunks everywhere.

Shit. He’d thought he had gone through the worst of this, this panic, this _fear_ , after signing on with the Bruins last year, but it turned out that it didn’t matter if a team was the defending Stanley Cup champions or not, he was still freaked as fuck to be meeting them for the first time. They still had expectations of him, thoughts that they could be the team to turn him around, and he didn’t know how to tell them it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t changing, not for them, not for anyone, and the hope in their eyes at the start of the season was almost worse than the crushing disappointment that came as the year went on.

“Becket!” A call came behind him. He turned, blowing out a stream of smoke as the newcomer approached. Tendo Choi, he recognized as the form grew closer.

“Hey,” he said, smiling.

“Welcome to New York. It’s good to have you here.”

“S’good to be here, man.” Raleigh turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t be blowing smoke in Tendo’s face. “Not a lot of teams with as much history as the Rangers.”

“Yeah, well.” Tendo stared at him for long enough that Raleigh shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. He raised an eyebrow in tacit inquiry over the scrutiny, but Tendo just smiled inscrutably and said, “Let’s see if we can’t make our own history, huh?”

So it began. Raleigh looked down under the pretense of digging around in his gear bag. “Let’s,” he echoed.

Tendo leaned in just enough to make Raleigh want to inch back, crowded against his car. “Can I…?” He motioned towards Raleigh’s cigarette.

“Sure.” Raleigh passed it over.

Only instead of taking a drag like Raleigh expected, Tendo dropped it and crushed it under the toe of his shoe. “Word of advice, don’t smoke around MSG. Pentecost’ll make you run suicides for a half hour if he catches you doing it.”

“Good to know,” Raleigh said slowly.

“Also,” Tendo continued, still with that rich calm to his voice, “you’re going to need to take better care of your body to keep up with the team.”

Raleigh had to admit a grudging respect for Tendo’s directness.

“I can’t control how much you care, and I can’t force you to pretend like you do.” His voice lowered to a growl. “But so help me God, if you make Hanners feel bad about himself for caring as much as he does, I will make sure you are traded to Calgary within the half-hour. Do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear,” Raleigh said.

He didn’t really need the threat, though. He could already guess, from the way things were going, how shit would go down in New York.

Not a lot of teams had the history of the Rangers, like he’d said. And he wouldn’t even be a blip on their radar before they shuffled him off to the next. How long would it be, he wondered with morbid curiosity, before every team in the NHL realized what about a quarter of them already knew?

 

The locker room went silent when he and Tendo entered, which would have been intimidating if there had been more than three people there. Raleigh nodded to them and drifted to his locker to start suiting up for practice.

More people trickled in over the next few minutes, shooting him curious glances, but he ignored them in favor of pulling on his socks and compression pants. He had done the whole bubbly, friendly thing in San Jose, and losing his team had crushed him. Losing the _faith_ of his team, when he started to slide. Seeing as his time with the Rangers was probably temporary, he wasn’t looking to form attachments here.

He was doing up the Velcro on his kneepads when Tendo walked over. Apparently Raleigh had been adopted under his wing. “Want me to introduce you to everyone here?” Tendo asked. “You can meet the rest as they come in.”

Raleigh shrugged. He already knew everyone’s name, but he supposed that wasn’t the point. Not forming attachments was one thing, but he wasn’t going to be a total douchebag in the process. “Lay it on me,” he said.

Tendo pointed around the room at each player in turn.

“Newts.” Newton Geiszler gave a wave.

“Manny.” Hermann Gottlieb saluted him stiffly.

“Hulk.” Raleigh and Aleksis Kaidanovsky traded shoulder claps. Raleigh committed his nickname to memory – he had only ever called him Aleks when they’d played together in San Jose.

“Lecter.” Hannibal Chau shot him a smile that was more than a little frightening, and Raleigh decided not to ask where he’d gotten his name.

“The Wei Tang clan.” Jin and Chueng Wei flipped Tendo off, and he responded in kind.

“Duke.” Duc Jessop looked up from lacing up his skates to nod at Raleigh, eyes heavy-lidded like he was about to fall asleep right there on the bench.

“Gags.” Trevin Gage waved, and Raleigh waved back. They’d met before, back when Raleigh had been playing with his twin Bruce in Toronto.

“Freezer.” Sergio D’onofrio, who Raleigh would be playing backup for. Raleigh greeted him with a deep nod, because it was never good to step on the toes of your starter.

“Zeke.” Zeke Amarok nodded a greeting.

“Couldn’t think of a nickname for him?” Raleigh teased.

Tendo grinned. “Didn’t need one, he comes with. So how’s it going? Finding everything alright?” he asked.

Raleigh nodded. “I came in last week to talk to the trainers about my regime. They set me up then, gave me a tour. I think I know where everything is.”

“Doesn’t look like they have much to tell you,” Tendo laughed, gesturing to Raleigh’s chest. “You must work out like five hours a day, body like that.”

Raleigh shook his head. “Are you hitting on me? In a locker room? Bad form, Choi.”

Tendo gaped at him for a moment, then gave a deep belly laugh. “I always heard you were quiet. Never knew you were a sarcastic sumbitch.”

Raleigh shrugged, smiling. He turned to grab his t-shirt, caught the eye of someone entering the room, and stopped dead.

Of course he recognized Chuck Hansen. Anyone who picked up the sports section of the paper more than once a year would recognize Chuck Hansen. Raleigh had seen that five-page spread in ESPN same as everyone else, that scowling face staring up at him from the front cover, the shirtless centerfold sending him pangs because there was no way this kid was 18, not with shoulders like that.

What had they called him? Prodigious? A wunderkind? The future of the NHL?

Raleigh didn’t know if he bought that. He did know that watching Chuck play was like free porn. He scored like magic and skated like sin, graceful and smooth. Chuck was demonstrably better than most other skaters, quicker and more precise, his every motion dripping with elegant intent.

And when he scored, well, that was just dirty.

But knowing that objectively, seeing his glossy image in the magazines, wasn’t the same thing as meeting his eye across the locker room and feeling a low punch to the gut.

Well, fuck.

This could mean trouble.

 

The whole time Raleigh dressed, he could feel eyes on him, but every time he lifted his gaze Chuck was looking elsewhere. Pulling on his compression shirt had brought some relief, less vulnerability.

He wondered if he had imagined the way Chuck’s eyes had seemed to drop, gaze focused south of Raleigh’s chin.

He wondered if Chuck noticed Raleigh looking back.

All things considered, covering himself up was probably a good thing for his own mental health. He pulled on his socks and pants, tied his skates, strapped on his leg pads, buckled up his chest protector. He got a little lost in his yellow practice jersey, and when he finally untangled the sleeves and popped his head through the hole, there was Chuck, standing in front of him.

Raleigh looked up. “Hey,” he said, then went back to examining his helmet for any nicks or dents.

“Hey,” Chuck said, shifting back and forth on his skates. Whether it was borne of uncertainty or a need to keep balanced, Raleigh couldn’t tell. “Wanted to introduce myself. ‘m Chuck Hansen.”

 _Duh_ , Raleigh didn’t say. “Raleigh Becket. Nice to meet you.”

Chuck’s lip curled. “Right, yeah.”

The Australian accent was much more affecting in person, Raleigh mused. He tugged on his left glove, adjusted the fit of it. “You don’t like me much, do you?” He didn’t look up.

Chuck shrugged. “Not much, no. Is that going to be a problem for us?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Raleigh said. He stopped dressing for the moment, standing up to be on equal footing. “We gonna have trouble?”

Chuck hesitated. Shook his head, eventually, chin tilted up. “You gotta try. That’s the deal, okay? You gotta make the saves you can make and not get psyched out by the ones you can’t.” He took a step toward Raleigh, so close the toes of their skates knocked together. “Cuz if you don’t do that, then yeah. We’re gonna have trouble.”

Raleigh saw the slight shift of the locker room in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t break eye contact with Chuck long enough to look around. He didn’t need to, though. He could tell that people were watching just by the hushed murmur that went around the team like a wave.

He thought, this isn’t the way I wanted things to start.

Challenging their captain, feuding with their golden boy, going head to head in a futile contest of wills. Jesus, why didn’t they just whip out their dicks and end the charade? Raleigh always hated metaphors.

The team loved Chuck. Sure, they would have said the same even if they didn’t, but he could read the sincerity in their eyes in the interviews after the Rangers got beat by the Bruins in the Semifinals. They loved him because he loved hockey, they loved him because he didn’t hold anything back.

And Raleigh was too old, too weary, and hell, maybe too wise to be involved in this ridiculous posturing shit. He stepped back, noticing the triumph that flashed in Chuck’s eyes as he did.

Chuck was so young.

“We’re not gonna have trouble,” Raleigh promised. Then he grinned, knocking Chuck’s shoulder with his knuckles. “But I gotta say, man, you’re not as scary as you think you are. I’ve been in more fights than you, pretty boy, and in case you ain’t noticed, I’m a _goalie_.”

The tension in the room broke, utterly. The guys laughed and went back to what they were doing. Tendo clapped Raleigh’s shoulder, approval in the motion. He relaxed, happy to have handled himself well, for once.

Chuck flushed red, and it was _adorable_. “Skill players aren’t supposed to fight,” he said, voice going tight. “And I – fuck you, I don’t need to defend myself to you.”

“Nah, you’re right,” Raleigh said. “You don’t wanna waste your ace in the sin bin.” He dropped his voice. “Besides, we wouldn’t want to risk marking up your pretty face.”

Chuck’s blush deepened, spreading all the way to his ears, to Raleigh’s fascination.

Raleigh grinned. “See you on the ice, man,” he said, tapping Chuck’s hand with his stick as he slipped past him.

All in all, he was feeling pretty good.

 

Felt even better after practice, sweaty and exhausted but grinning with satisfaction. After running warm-ups and drills, Coach Pentecost had them scrimmage, Raleigh against Sergio with a constantly shifting set of players.

Raleigh won 4-1, with Jin Wei as the only score against him.

Then Pentecost had about half the team doing stickhandling and targeting exercises while the other half tried scoring on Raleigh, one after another, a constant barrage of pucks as each player tried to wrist it past him before moving to the back of the line.

Raleigh went 36 for 40, there, stopping all three of Chuck’s attempts in the process.

So yeah. He was pretty proud of himself.

His smile lasted until he got back from showering and found Chuck waiting by his locker, still fully dressed, with his arms crossed over his chest. He glared like he honestly might haul off and punch Raleigh. Shit, was he really that angry about having been shut out? Fucking sensitive little shit.

“What now?” Raleigh asked. “I tried, didn’t I? I was _good_ , wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, you were. _Are_.” Chuck said. “I’d forgotten how much, what with your shitty goals against average last season.”

Raleigh groaned.

“No one who can play like _that_ should have a save percentage below 900,” Chuck said, low and biting. His eyes were dark. “So what’s the fucking deal, huh? You get tired halfway through a season and just give up? Or what, you think you’re _too_ good, wanna give the other blokes a chance, play with your eyes closed?” He shoved up in Raleigh’s face. “What gives, Becket?”

“Leave it,” Raleigh said, good mood slipping away by the second. He shouldered past Chuck.

Chuck followed him, unsurprisingly. “So that’s it? Fuck effort, fuck the Cup? Just gonna phone it in to get your bloody paycheck?”

“Fuck off, Hansen,” Raleigh growled. He turned to his locker, cursing when he realized he’d forgotten to bring an extra pair of underwear. He wasn’t about to put on his sweaty, disgusting briefs, so he pulled his shorts on over his bare ass.

Chuck didn’t say anything for a moment, appearing to have lost his train of thought. That look of open-mouthed captivation was intriguing, Raleigh thought. For a second, Raleigh forgot he was supposed to be pissed-off.

Then Chuck opened his goddamn mouth again. “No, I’m not going anywhere til I get an answer.” He frowned again, deeper now. “You just don’t care? Is that it? What difference does it make to you if the team loses because you’re just planning on bouncing to another one next year?”

Raleigh’s patience, already stretched tight, ran out. He spun towards Chuck, advancing on him too quickly for him to react before Raleigh had a tight grip on the back of his neck, dragging him forward to snarl in his face, “Back the fuck off before I _make_ you back off, got it?”

Chuck ripped out of his grasp. He opened his mouth to say something, but Tendo materialized at his side, muttering in his ear, “Give it a rest, okay? You gotta give him a chance before you freak out on him.”

Chuck’s shoulders hunched up, but he nodded tersely before stalking off to his own locker.

“Thanks,” Raleigh said, sounding bitter even to his own ears.

“I didn’t say I disagreed with him,” Tendo said mildly.

Raleigh clenched his jaw, a headache starting to pound in his temples. “Thanks anyway.”

“Anytime,” Tendo said, and left.

 

They lost their first game. Worse, they lost _bad_ , down by three at the end of the second period, the Devils winning puck battles left and right, playing the tough physical game that seemed to baffle the Rangers offensive corps.

No wonder other teams always played the dump-and-chase game with them. Newts and Manny in particular never fought for the puck along the boards, and Gags had a nasty habit of keeping his head tucked when he moved into the neutral zone. Raleigh wasn’t gonna say anything, though. It wasn’t anything they, or Coach Pentecost, didn’t already know.

Raleigh had done some research when the Rangers signed him, but he hadn’t realized how bad their penalty kill unit was, not until the Devils went 3 for 4 on 11 shots. Which, really? That was just embarrassing.

Sergio telegraphed too much, and that was something Raleigh _had_ learned in his research. He always dropped his shoulders a little bit when he thought his opponent was gonna wrist it low. That one, Raleigh might say something about, after taking a few weeks to get a feel for the team dynamic.

Raleigh found himself watching the game with a frown, thinking _I would have won that_.

It was an unfamiliar thought.

 

 _You could have won that_ , Yancy texted him.

 

“You should have won that,” Chuck hissed in Raleigh’s ear while they were changing in the locker room after the game.

 

Two days later, their home opener went to shootout. Psychologically, not great, but still better than losing 6-2, so Raleigh wasn’t complaining.

The Jets’ first shot went wide, and Manny scored stick side high, setting the crowd screaming. But on the next round, Lightcap chipped it in over Sergio’s glove and Schoenfield blocked Newts’ five-hole attempt, quieting the arena.

Raleigh had played backup for Schoenfield before. He jiggled his leg in a staccato rhythm, skate blade bouncing and skidding on the slick rubbery ground.

Sergio blocked the Jets’ forward’s shot.

Now or never.

“Hansen,” Raleigh said, flagging him down.

Chuck skated over. “Kinda busy right now,” he said, jerking his head towards the open ice and the puck waiting for him there.

“Stick side low,” Raleigh said.

Chuck shook his head. “Scouting says –“

“Go high after five-hole, I know. Trust me, alright?”

Chuck, with a wary look, skated off towards the puck. He tapped it back and forth with his stick, waited for the signal. When it came, he shot off, picking up speed before feinting a wrist shot.

Schoenfield didn’t drop. Good.

Chuck dragged his left skate, adjusted his grip, and drove a backhand shot under Schoenfield’s stick hand.

The goal siren blared.

Half the team jumped the boards, splitting off to either go clap Chuck’s back or bonk helmets with Sergio. But the first thing Chuck did after wading through the congratulations was to skate over to Raleigh and offer his glove for a fist bump.

“Good call, Becket,” he said.

Raleigh grinned.

 

Chuck eased up on him after that. Not much, but enough that it was noticeable. He still got unreasonably angry whenever Raleigh did well in practice, and always said Raleigh’s name in this obnoxious drawn-out way engineered specifically to piss him off. But he dialed back the antagonism, even if his chirps always had a vicious, personal edge to them.

Then Raleigh played his first game.

It came after a four game losing streak, with Sergio getting quieter after each one, hunching over in his pads in the locker room. He’d looked so miserable and small after the last game that Coach Pentecost had banned him from giving a post-game interview, just shot Chuck a look that made him slide into the space carved out for Sergio in front of the press, looking grim and making excuses.

So Raleigh got the nod for the home game against the Blackhawks.

 

He got a call from Yancy when the starting lineup was announced.

“Hey, little bro,” Yancy said quietly, which he only did when Raleigh needed the comfort.

He hadn’t realized it until then, but yeah. He did need it. “Hey,” he said, mindlessly dipping a spoon into a container of Greek yogurt and letting it fall back down in blobs, watching as little white specks sprayed out over the counter and his forearm.

“Hansen’s not giving you too much shit, is he?”

“Nah,” said Raleigh.

“Raleigh…”

Raleigh screwed up his face. “What qualifies as ‘too much’?”

“ _Raleigh_.”

Raleigh sighed. He didn’t even know why he bothered, with Yancy. “He came up to me after morning practice, told me I needed to win this game.”

Yancy scoffed. “Bullshit, the whole team needs to win the game.”

Funny, but Raleigh had said _exactly_ the same thing. He smiled. “We should enter some sort of America’s Got Talent competition, or whatever.”

“I don’t think finishing each other’s sentences is a talent,” Yancy said, which just proved Raleigh’s point. “What’d he say when you told him that?”

Raleigh leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “Got up in my face, as always. Did that condescending thing where he jabbed his finger against my chest.”

“And?”

“And said, no. _You_ need to win this game.” Chuck’s voice had been sharp and cutting, eyes intent.

Yancy snorted. “What a shithead.”

“Yeah, but is he wrong?” Raleigh switched on speakerphone and started doing stretches. He could feel himself tightening up, and with only three hours to game time, he couldn’t afford that. “I mean, I do need to win this game.”

Yancy didn’t say anything.

“Seriously, like, what am I waiting for? Some kind of epiphany?” Raleigh sat on the ground, leaned over to grab his right foot. “ _Am_ I just phoning it in?”

Some of the ambient noise on Yancy’s end cut off. He must have pulled over the car.

Well shit, Raleigh thought, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. Apparently he was taking this harder than he’d realized.

“Baby bro,” Yancy started, which – yep, definitely taking this _hard_. “You wouldn’t still be playing if you didn’t love the game. Remember your rookie year? Losers don’t win the Calder. Quitters don’t win the Calder.”

Raleigh switched to his left foot.

“Have you ever thought about retiring? I know you’ve got the money for it, your contract with San Jose alone…” Yancy dragged in a deep breath.

“I thought you quit,” Raleigh said. He thought for a moment, and swore as he realized – “Oh, fuck, tomorrow’s the first game of the season! Balls, why are we talking about me?”

Yancy smiled. “So call me tomorrow and we’ll talk about me then.”

Raleigh grunted, only a little mollified. Shit, he was such an ass, angsting about his own problems when Yancy had his first game as Defensive Coordinator of the Denver Broncos the next day. No wonder he was stress-smoking.

Yancy had been going places, playing his sophomore year as starting quarterback in Seattle. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before he signed a major contract – five years, if not longer. Then came the bad fall in the NFC Championship game against the Redskins, the surgery, the months of recovery only to be told he could never get on the field again.

Yancy had shaken it off, devoting himself to learning the game, had climbed his way up until he had a serious coaching job at just 30 years old.

Yancy had bounced back, but Raleigh hadn’t.

It wasn’t the fear of being injured that rattled him. He was a goalie, goalies didn’t usually get hurt, except for groin pulls and knee strain and maybe an errant foot to the head.

It was something else entirely, something that he couldn’t name and didn’t think about.

Seattle had lost that game, Raleigh remembered.

“But I’m serious,” Yancy pushed, bringing him back to the present. “Have you ever thought about retiring?”

Raleigh scowled. Did another set of stretches. Then, finally, “No.”

“Exactly,” said Yancy with relish.

 

Raleigh was scraping up the crease when Chuck skated over, the rest of the team still warming up in looping circles around the ice.

Raleigh braced himself for the condescending finger jab.

Instead, Chuck knocked his helmet against Raleigh’s, keeping it there. “You’re gonna win this game, alright?”

It sounded like it could be a warning. Hell, maybe it was meant to be one.

Then Chuck repeated it, heavy with intonations. “You’re gonna win.”

No, Raleigh realized. Not a warning. A promise.

It sounded like faith.

Raleigh could only nod dumbly, then Chuck skated away, grabbing a puck with his stick to go trace the Bud Light logo under the ice with it.

Raleigh tipped his head up. Inhaled deeply, eyes closed. The slice of blades, the scent of cold, clean ice. The muffled murmur of the crowd. The palpable buzz of energy.

Well, okay then.

He was going to win this game.

 

The guys were still congratulating him when they got to the locker room. Even Stacker had nodded to Raleigh with a smile, midway through the post-game media scrum. Mako had tried to interview Raleigh after the game, but he’d refused as usual. He could never remember if that privilege was an official part of his contract, or if it was just an unspoken agreement between him and the coach.

Raleigh shucked his helmet and ran a towel over his sweaty hair, leaving it limp around his neck.

“That was epic!” Newt said, beaming. “Seriously awesomesauce, Rals, my man!”

“That was an impressive showing,” Hermann said.

“Good game,” Hannibal tossed over his shoulder as he went to the showers.

Aleks just smiled and thumped his fist into Raleigh’s shoulder.

Tendo walked over, grinning ear to ear. “Fucking shutout, Rals! Mako told me you blocked 48 shots!” he whooped. “Whatcha doing right now, man? I wanna take you out for a celebratory beer.”

Raleigh grinned. “Sorry, man, I told Freezer I’d give him some tips. He wants to work on improving his reaction time.” He figured he could sneak in some subtle tips about telegraphing his motions in the meantime.

He saw Chuck watching out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he looked over, Chuck had already turned away. He was smiling, though. Raleigh wondered if it was because of him, and felt something warm and fluffy in his stomach at the very idea.

Chuck was the only one who hadn’t congratulated him, Raleigh realized. Because it wasn’t a surprise for him. He treated it as a given.

Because he’d expected Raleigh to win.

Oh, fuck.

Raleigh had to tuck his head between his pads and breathe into a towel to keep from throwing up.

 

In the weeks after the NFC Championship game, Raleigh had done a lot of reading in the chair next to Yancy’s hospital bed, and then in the waiting room while Yancy was in physical therapy, mostly articles on ESPN and NFL.com and Deadspin.

He still remembered some of the headlines: _Could Yancy Becket Have Won the Game?_ and _Becket’s Promising Career Cut Short Due to Reckless Play_ and _How Young Players’ Arrogance is Giving Football a Bad Name_ , written by that smarmy little fuck on BleacherReport. Raleigh still hated that guy.

There were more articles written condemning Yancy for injuring himself by not throwing the ball away, forcing the coach to play their laughably inconsistent backup QB, than there were articles criticizing the offensive line for letting him get flushed out of the pocket in the first place. Not that that would quite fair either, Raleigh reasoned.

He remembered the comments on the articles, too. Vitriolic bullshit written by bitter Seahawks fans, cruel taunts from smug Niners’ fans, layers and layers of garbage and blame, so callous and malicious it made him feel sick reading them. So personally betrayed it made his throat tighten up.

 _He had it coming_ was a common one.

 _It was his fault the Seahawks lost_ was the other.

The quotes from Yancy were the absolute worst, the ways they twisted his words. _I probably should have released the ball earlier_ turned into a confession of guilt _, I know we would all do that play differently if we went back and ran it again_ turned into shifting blame onto the offensive line for his mistakes, _I knew my team could do it without me_ was alternately read as passive aggressive and egotistical in turn.

People didn’t care that Yancy would walk with a slight limp for the rest of his life. Fan loyalty was fair-weather when you didn’t live up to their expectations, Raleigh learned.

His SV% had dropped three and a half points in the second half of the season. Once it started, he couldn’t stop it from snowballing in an ever-downward trend.

That’s when the articles about him began popping up, too. _The Numbers of Becket’s Sophomore Slump_ , and _Should San Jose Start Shopping Around For Another Goalie,_ and _What Happened to Raleigh Becket_?

Once they started, they never stopped.

 

He let in five goals in two periods the next game he started. Pentecost subbed in Sergio after the intermission.

Chuck’s eyes were burning mad.

 

Yancy texted him. _Stop doing this to yourself, baby bro_.

Raleigh didn’t respond.

 

Fortunately for Raleigh’s sanity, Sergio got over his case of nerves (yes, he recognized the hypocrisy) and got the starting position back. They won three, lost one, won four, lost two. NHL.com wrote a dumb article about their signature inconsistency and traced it all back to Raleigh somehow.

Raleigh had called Yancy first for once, when he saw that one.

Raleigh played sometimes, but he never attained the perfection he had reached in that first game. His goals against average hovered at a respectable 2.25, and his save percentage never dipped below .900, though it got close sometimes. He won more games than he lost, which is all he could really expect. Yeah, he was mediocre, and he was alright with that.

Chuck wasn’t.

Which, for whatever reason, made Raleigh feel shittier than actually losing the games ever did.

 

The season did have its ups, though.

“So this is a regular thing?” Raleigh asked as Tendo turned the BMW into the driveway of the sprawling Long Island property – the house was small and nondescript, but the garden was vast and looked like it would be gorgeous come summer.

“Every Christmas,” Tendo confirmed. “And another one at the end of the season, whenever that happens.”

Raleigh looked out the window and smiled.

“It’s because he’s got such a small family,” Tendo explained as they walked up the front steps. “Just him and Mako.”

Raleigh took this in stride until he actually comprehended the words. “Mako, like, the sideline reporter?”

“She’s a professional sportscaster, man,” Tendo said. “Went to Northwestern.”

Raleigh frowned thoughtfully. He felt like he should have known that. He made a mental note to make more of an effort to talk to her when she wasn’t trying to badger him about doing an interview, and he wasn’t busy avoiding her for that same reason.

“Oh, hey Hanners, Max,” Tendo said to someone approaching behind Raleigh.

Raleigh couldn’t remember anyone related to the team named Max. For a moment, a spike of panic shot through him that Chuck had a boyfriend and no one had told him – not that it was any of his business really, he reminded himself fiercely.

Then he turned around and saw Chuck approaching with a bulldog trotting along at his side, and everything made sense again.

“Oh, shit!” Raleigh said delightedly, dropping to his knees. “Dude, dick move keeping this handsome little man all to yourself.”

He scratched Max behind the ears with one hand, rubbing below his chin with the other. Max relished the attention, tongue lolling, stubby tail wagging so hard it shook his whole body. He licked at Raleigh’s hand.

Raleigh looked up and caught the tail end of a shared look between Tendo and Chuck – Tendo smug, and Chuck pissed. “What?” he asked, partially standing.

“Nothing,” Chuck said, low and fierce and mostly aimed at Tendo.

“Hanners uses Max as a gauge of worth,” Tendo said, cheerfully ignoring the subsequent flash of Chuck’s middle finger. “He says Max is a good judge of people.”

“S’why he doesn’t like you, innit?” Chuck directed at Tendo.

Tendo smirked, and Raleigh bit back a smile, amused that Chuck had just unintentionally confirmed Tendo’s assertion.

“Stop flirting with my dog,” Chuck said, kicking Raleigh’s side.

Raleigh gave Max one last pat and straightened up.

 

It was a good party. The best kind – ambient music, free-flowing booze, good food, and great people.

Raleigh made it two hours before becoming overwhelmed by the crush of people, but still made sure to stop by and thank Stacker for hosting before hiding out on the back deck. Some of the guys were playing football in the dark, boots kicking up drifts of snow as they launched themselves in full-body tackles at their teammates. The air was full of shouts and cheers and chirps and laughter.

Raleigh leaned against the railing, sipped his beer, and smiled. The clicking of claws on hardwood alerted him to his visitors, and he turned and knelt in one smooth motion, giving Max some love before looking up at his owner. “Nice party,” he said.

“Yeah,” Chuck said, stealing Raleigh’s beer. “Good digs.”

“Mako must be an amazing gardener,” Raleigh mentioned, wiping the dog spit off his hands before joining Chuck at the railing.

Chuck snorted. “It’s actually Pentecost’s, but good shot.”

“No way,” Raleigh said.

Chuck nodded, laughing. “He needs something to do in the off-season, yeah?”

Raleigh just shook his head.

Without saying it outright, Chuck appeared to be calling a temporary truce on hating Raleigh for not living up to his potential, and Raleigh followed suit. They sat on the deck for hours, talking about American football, growing up as an army brat, old monster movies, and how to properly care for a bulldog.

As the night grew colder, Raleigh started to huddle into his sweater, even the thick cable-knit wool not enough to ward off the New York winter chill. Chuck didn’t seem to have that problem, wearing a Henley under his bomber jacket, and eyed Raleigh for a moment before apparently coming to a decision.

He scooped up Max and dumped him in Raleigh’s lap. “He’s like a furnace,” he said gruffly, then stood up and walked away before Raleigh could respond.

Raleigh stared after him, only looking away when Max licked his face and barked. He really was warm.

Chuck returned minutes later bearing two large mugs with steam wafting from them. He wordlessly passed one to Raleigh, who took a whiff and smiled, curling his numb fingers around the heated ceramic. “I got hooked on cider playing for Toronto,” he mentioned. “Used to road trip down to Vermont on weekends off and buy it in bulk.”

“That’s where Pentecost gets his from,” Chuck said. “He and Mako drive up and buy shit-tons of cider and cider donuts and cider caramels.”

“Cider caramels?”

Chuck dug around in his pocket. “Here.” He passed the squishy, half-melted square of caramel to Raleigh, who peeled off the wrapper and popped it into his mouth.

His eyes went wide.

“Right?” Chuck said.

“It tastes like fall,” Raleigh said, kind of dazed.

To his surprise, Chuck didn’t laugh at him for his reaction, just nodded. “Yeah, Mako and I tried to make them once in high school. You use cider instead of water, I guess? It turned out shonky so we just ended up eating the stuff with a spoon.”

“I didn’t know you went to high school with her,” Raleigh said, surprised.

“Mmhmm.” Chuck took a long drink from his mug. “Moved here from Sydney to play hockey at Shattuck-St. Mary’s when I was 14.”

“Shit, how’d your parents feel about that?”

Chuck shrugged. “My father wasn’t so excited at first, but he got over it.”

Raleigh had a feeling this was a slight understatement of the real events.

“He moved to New York when I got drafted, guess he got sad and lonely back in Oz. Got me Max, too, though I reckon it’s just cuz he knew I would need someone to watch him during road trips.” Chuck reached over and rubbed the back of Max’s head, so close to Raleigh’s neck he could feel the heat from his knuckles.

Raleigh nearly stopped breathing. He licked his lips, which still tasted of cider and caramel.

Suddenly, Chuck’s face was a lot closer. Close enough for Raleigh to see the separate flecks of color in his eyes, smell the cider on his breath. Close enough to know that he was about to be kissed.

“Wait,” he whispered, not moving away.

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

“Not like this,” Raleigh said. He cleared his throat, which had gone dry as parchment somewhere along the way.

Chuck pulled back. He frowned, thoughtful. “You’re right,” he said.

Raleigh wanted nothing more than to kiss Chuck, to spread him out naked and desperate in his bed, to fuck him loose and open and twitching around his cock. But not like this, with Chuck having glared hot poison at him the day before when he’d fucked up and lost them the game in overtime after misplaying the puck, and (Raleigh knew) would be even angrier four days later when Raleigh beat Sergio soundly during scrimmages at practice.

Not like that.

He managed a weak laugh. “What, did you forget I’m a washed-up has-been who buckles under pressure?”

“No, I didn’t,” Chuck said, standing. “Maybe you should, though. C’mon Max.”

Max dutifully hopped off his lap and followed his owner inside.

Raleigh shivered, wrapping his arms tight around himself. He felt colder now than he had before, and he gratefully sipped from his cider, though he found himself missing the taste of caramel.

 

Raleigh had been right. Chuck _was_ angrier.

“You fucking fuckwit,” he screamed, and the sound echoed through the empty arena.

Their teammates shot each other looks and sped up in their escape to the locker room.

“You know what you just did, right? You went –“

“30 for 30 in shootout practice, I know,” Raleigh said quietly, gathering the pieces of his stick where Chuck had broken it over the crossbar.

“Nobody has a 100% shootout save percentage. _Nobody_. Ken bloody Dryden couldn’t have done it. Patrick bloody Roy couldn’t have done it.” He literally snarled the words. “So how the fuck did you let in five goals against the fucking Panthers last week? Huh? Please, enlighten me.”

Raleigh skated over and dropped off the splintered fragments of wood into the trashcan in the visitors’ bench. He set his jaw.

Chuck followed him, nearly on his heels. “30 for 30!” he shouted, like Raleigh hadn’t heard him the first time.

“So give up on me!” Raleigh whipped around, startling Chuck so badly he lost his footing and fell backwards onto his ass. “I’m useless, I get it. I’m inconsistent and pathetic and a waste of talent. Give up on me. Everyone else has.”

Chuck just lay there, chest heaving, wind knocked out of him.

After a moment, Raleigh offered his hand. Chuck took it and pulled himself up. “Seriously, Hanners,” Raleigh said. He looked down, adjusting the fit of his gloves. “What’s the point?”

“The point is, everyone else hasn’t given up on you,” Chuck said, eyes flinty. “Only you have.”

Raleigh skated away.

He felt like he did that too much, but he didn’t have anything else to say.

 

They had two days off before leaving for a five-game road trip, having just dropped three games. Losing three straight always sucked, but the fact that it was a home stand sucked even more. Raleigh hated disappointing the fans, and not only because he felt sorry for them for shelling out all the money just to come watch their team lose.

Naturally, the team had taken the opportunity to drink. They never drank the day before games, but having two days off, one of which was literally just five hours on a bus to Washington DC, gave them the excuse they needed.

Raleigh hadn’t wanted to come, but then Tendo had just shown up, and it felt meaner to shoot him down when he was pouting at Raleigh in person.

It sucked, of course.

Everyone was morose and droopy, and they sat around the three tables at the bar drinking beer and kind of mumbling to each other about anything other than hockey, although it was the only thing on anyone’s mind.

Chuck didn’t even drink, but he’d shown up as some kind of captainly obligation, and sat at Raleigh’s table glaring at random spots on the wall.

Raleigh got fed up with it fast, and leaned over as he stood up to get another beer, whispering in Chuck’s ear, “It’s just a game. It sucks, but it’ll get better.” He walked away.

But Chuck followed him, eyes alight with anger, clearly spoiling for the fight. He caught Raleigh’s arm and spun him around, leaving his hand there like the weight of the world on Raleigh’s shoulders. Or so it felt. “It’s not just a game, Becket. That’s what your problem is, you see them as _just games_ , but it’s more than that, okay? Every game is important.”

Raleigh wished that he could blame his loose tongue on the alcohol, but really it was Chuck, staring at him with judgment and bewilderment and contempt in his bright eyes, that made the bottled up poison finally spill out at long last. “If I cared that much, do you really think I’d be able to keep playing without getting crushed under the weight of my losses? Do you think I could keep playing if every game was _important_ and I lost even one?”

It felt good, weirdly. Like bloodletting. That had been a long time in coming, he thought.

Chuck reeled back, looking surprised. But there was a dawning recognition also, an expression that made Raleigh look away, studying the art on the walls so he wouldn’t have to meet Chuck’s eyes any longer. “The wins make up for the losses,” Chuck finally said, soft with feeling. “Winning makes all the losses melt away.”

“For you, maybe,” Raleigh said, shrugging off the hand still on his arm. “For forwards or defensemen. But I’m the fucking goaltender, Hanners. I don’t _get over losses_. Yeah, when you lose, you can tell yourself that you could have changed the outcome, you could have done something different. But when I lose, it’s _my fault_ , I need to be better. Every game is 60 minutes of proving myself – don’t tell me you know what it feels like to come up short.”

Chuck stood with his mouth slightly open. Raleigh thought about telling him it made him look like a dying fish, and bit his lower lip.

“Say we make it to the Stanley Cup Finals and lose there because of a goal that I let in,” he said, glaring at the far wall. “Do you think that I could look at your face after the game and recover from that? If I cared about every game, do you think I could…” He rubbed the area between his eyes, feeling suddenly sober. In the end, he could only repeat, “Don’t tell me you know how it feels.”

“You’re a washout,” Chuck said quietly.

Raleigh picked up his head. “Excuse me?”

“The guys who can’t take it, who can’t handle the losses, they wash out. But you didn’t. What happened?”

Raleigh didn’t answer for a minute, just set his jaw and looked down. Finally, he muttered, “I’m too good to wash out. I know it, you know it, Stacker knows it. But you’re right. The only thing separating me from the rest of the washouts is they don’t have enough natural talent to make up for the fear of losing, and I do.”

Which was the truth, mostly. The rest, he didn’t know how to say.

Chuck didn’t respond for a moment. He kept watching Raleigh, though, eyes contemplative. Then he frowned and shook his head. “Never mind. I’m heading out. Need a ride?”

Raleigh blinked, a little thrown at how easily the conversation was dropped. Then said, “Yeah,” because he didn’t know where he wanted to be, but it sure as fuck wasn’t here.

 

“Where am I dropping you off?” Chuck asked, looking over his shoulder as he merged into traffic.

“Fairfield Inn,” Raleigh said.

Chuck’s eyebrows went up. He looked at Raleigh.

“What?” Raleigh said, trying not to sound defensive.

“By MSG?” Chuck asked.

“It’s convenient,” Raleigh said.

Chuck shook his head, expression unreadable.

“What?” Raleigh repeated.

“You live in a hotel?” Chuck’s lips curled around the word, dismissive.

Raleigh set his chin in his palm, glaring out the window. “Didn’t want to rent a house if I was just gonna get traded after a year anyway.”

Chuck definitely sneered this time. “You know, that says a lot about you, Becket.”

Yeah, Raleigh thought. He knew.

 

Raleigh started for the next time in the second game of their trip, and was unsurprised to find Chuck avoiding his eye. Of course, he thought, something twisting in his gut. Any semblance of camaraderie would be lost between them now that Chuck knew what a complete loser he was. He couldn’t expect Chuck to still reach out to him, not when he saw how cowardly Raleigh really was.

And because of that, because Chuck had written him off, Raleigh found himself playing… actually, really well. Something about having confessed his weakness lifted a huge burden off his shoulders. Now that Chuck knew he had given up, he had nothing to lose, so why not play his ass off? It wasn’t just his burden to bear anymore.

Unfortunately, his new resolve was lost in the epic shit-show that the game turned out to be. He played amazingly, the rest of the team played fine, and Chuck – seemed to have forgotten how to skate.

Every time he gained control of the puck, he turned it over. He collided with his own teammates, was never in the passing lane when he needed to be, and his one-timer… Well, it had been quicker, to say the least. Despite this, Raleigh kept the score close, and they neared the end of regulation tied at 2.

The clock hit a minute to go, but Raleigh couldn’t pay attention to that, too busy watching the flurry of motion in front of the net. The puck was being batted back and forth by the Islanders’ forwards, each looking for the perfect angle to try for a shot. Finally, though, Hulk gained possession and the team began to move back down the ice. He passed it to Chuck, who –

Who looked around, hesitated for a split second, and tapped the puck straight to John Eureka. Striker looked astonished to suddenly have the puck on his tape, but wasted no time streaking down the ice toward Raleigh in a full-on breakaway. Raleigh dropped to his knees, pads spread wide, but the puck clipped his right pad at an awkward angle and he knew in that moment it was a goal.

The goal horn blared, the fans screamed, and Raleigh just looked at Chuck, wondering what in the hell just happened.

 

Mako was waiting in the visitors’ tunnel after the game.

“Not now,” Raleigh growled at her, then felt bad about taking his anger out on an innocent bystander. “Sorry, Miss Mori. Didn’t mean to yell at you.”

She nodded. “If you have a moment…?”

“No interviews,” he said instantly.

“But –”

“Sorry, Miss Mori.” He flashed her a smile, warm but firm. “You know that’s my rule. I don’t do interviews.”

She shook her head at him, eyes narrowed.

Yeah, he could see now that she was Pentecost’s daughter.

 

Raleigh waited across the locker room as Pentecost reamed out Chuck, who stood wearing a petulant frown and staring at his feet. His arms were crossed over his chest. He didn’t respond to any of Pentecost’s words, just waited out the lecture, and when Pentecost asked him a direct question he just shrugged.

Eventually Pentecost released him with a tight, clipped, “I hope to god you fix this by tomorrow,” and stalked out.

Before Chuck could so much as turn around, Raleigh yanked him into a corner with a hand on the scruff of his neck. “Shit, what the hell,” Chuck said, jerking out of his grip.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Raleigh asked, livid.

Chuck blinked. “What the fuck was what?”

“Stop playing dumb,” Raleigh said, upper lip curling. “That turnover to Striker, the screen you set up _on me_ during their power play, the whole fucking game. What happened to you?”

“Jesus, what’s with the bloody Inquisition?” Chuck asked. “So I screwed up, no worries.”

“It’s not just that you screwed up. It’s like you weren’t even trying.” Something niggled at the back of Raleigh’s mind, but he was too mad to think about it, rage clouding his senses.

Chuck set his jaw. “Maybe you psyched me out with your talk of accountability.”

“That’s such bull,” Raleigh sneered.

Chuck shrugged. “It was one fucking game. Everyone has an off day.”

“No, that was –“ Raleigh shook his head, unable to find the words to express his frustration. “You didn’t just _let_ them win, you _made_ them win.”

Chuck stared evenly at Raleigh.

And finally, _finally_ , the truth hit him. “You threw the game,” he whispered.

Chuck shrugged again.

Just when Raleigh thought he couldn’t get any angrier. “For what?” he cried out, livid. “To make a point to me?”

In contrast, Chuck was all easy dismissal. “It was one game, Rals. Why are you spewin’ about this? It’s just a game, right?”

Raleigh scowled, recognizing his own words turned against him. “That’s not fair. It’s not the same.”

He could tell he’d walked into Chuck’s trap by the way his eyes lit up, his voice losing the false tone of apathy. “And why isn’t it? It was my fault. This wasn’t a team loss, it was literally my fault. So what’s the difference?”

Raleigh floundered for a moment, but recovered quickly and said, “I don’t lose games on purpose.”

Chuck snorted. “Bullshit. If you don’t try, it’s the same thing, innit?”

“You’re not me. You’re not a washout.” Raleigh said, shaking his head.

“Neither are you!” Chuck said, shocking Raleigh with his vehemence. “You wouldn’t have gotten this far in the league if you were really and truly a washout, natural talent be damned.”

Raleigh’s knees felt weak, shaky. He carded a hand through his hair. “You threw the game for me? Hanners, that’s – fucking idiotic. You’re in the running for the Hart, you can’t afford to –”

Chuck dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “I threw one game. You do this every game. Tell me what the difference is, I’d love to hear it. Tell me why I’m so much worse.”

Raleigh faltered.

“You think watching me fuck up was bad?” Chuck advanced on him, but instead of doing that stupid finger-jabbing thing, just rested his spread hand over Raleigh’s chest. “Shit, Becket, talk to me after any game you’re in the net. Ask me how much it hurts watching someone who is _so fucking good_ fuck himself over like that.”

“It’s not the same,” Raleigh croaked. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Chuck rolled his eyes. “It _is_. Rals, you need to hold yourself to the same standards you hold other people.” His voice gentled for a moment on Raleigh’s name before picking back up. “You’re just as good as I am. You’re better than any other goalie in the league, when you actually try. So why are they supposed to try when you’re allowed to sit back and watch? Why should I give a shit when you clearly don’t?”

“I get it.” Raleigh swallowed. “But let’s say I try, and I lose, because it’s going to happen sometimes. What’s the pep talk then? When I try, and don’t throw it, and still lose – what magic words do you have for me?”

Chuck sighed. “Honestly, I don’t. Sometimes you lose, and you get back up and try to make it so that it doesn’t happen again the next time. That’s all I’ve got.”

Raleigh sat down, sweeping his hands over his face.

Chuck knelt before him, hands resting on his knees. Only then did Raleigh notice that everyone else had gone home, leaving them alone in the empty, echoing locker room. “Raleigh,” Chuck said. “I know you don’t believe in yourself. It’s fucking dumb, because you’re an amazing fucking goaltender, but you don’t. So… don’t.” He said it so casually.

Raleigh thought he must have misunderstood. “Don’t believe in myself?”

“Nope, cuz you suck at it.” Chuck grinned toothily. “Believe in _me_. Believe in me, because I believe in you. You don’t think you’re good enough? Tough shit, because I think you can do anything.”

“Oh my god,” Raleigh said. He could feel himself blushing.

Chuck stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. “Trust me,” he whispered. “Trust me to trust you.”

Raleigh could feel tears gathering in his eyes, to his immense shame. He shook his head helplessly.

“You can do this,” Chuck said. He stretched up and kissed Raleigh’s forehead. “I know you can. Believe in me.”

It was ridiculous. It was sappy and stupid and it shouldn’t have worked, not after Raleigh had been trying to drag himself out of this funk for years, not with so many coaches with pep talks and important games lost behind him.

It probably _wouldn’t_ work. He would win a few games and then go back to striking out, overcome by his own imminent failure.

But at that moment, Raleigh nodded. “I do.”

 

They won the next game 4-0. It was Raleigh’s second shutout of the year.

 

They clinched wild card on the third to last game of the regular season. Unless they lost both the last two and Carolina won both, they would get 7th seed. Which, could be worse. At least they made the playoffs.

They celebrated at Tendo’s place. Allison Choi made a giant vat of chili, Duke brought cornbread, and the rest of the team showed up with vegetable platters from the grocery store because they were all apparently equally lame.

They were midway through a back-to-back, so nobody touched the beer in Tendo’s fridge, claiming they couldn’t bear facing Chuck’s disapproving glare. They drank Gatorade out of red Solo cups and talked about basketball and golf and the recent “Mighty Ducks” remake. Some of the guys started up an _NHL ’24_ tournament in the living room.

Raleigh was full and relaxed and content, listening with his eyes closed to the guys chirping each other as they madly button-mashed on their controllers. Later, when Raleigh was chatting about football with some of the guys in the backyard, he surprised himself by mentioning that Yancy Becket was his brother, something he hadn’t talked about since San Jose.

Aleks thumped Raleigh’s back with his massive hand.

“Is good to see you smile,” he said. “I have not seen smiling-Becks in long time. Only sadfaced-Becks.” He made a face. “No good.”

Raleigh grinned back.

He found Chuck when he went to grab more carrot sticks from the kitchen. Chuck was refilling his water glass, silhouetted against the night sky as he stared out the window with a pensive expression. Raleigh watched him for a long moment, startling Chuck into jumping when he turned around and found Raleigh there.

“Hey,” said Raleigh.

Chuck just nodded.

“You don’t look excited,” Raleigh said, gesturing with a carrot stick. “Not like the rest of the guys.”

Chuck shrugged. “Saving my energy until I get on the ice against the Habs.”

“So what’s your goal?” Raleigh asked, leaning back against the wall. If he knew Chuck at all…

Chuck didn’t bother feigning confusion. “Ideally, two points per game –”

“Is that all?”

Chuck ignored him. “But I’d settle for one if it was the game winner.”

Raleigh grinned. “Good to keep your expectations realistic, man.”

Chuck screwed up his nose at him. “I’ll do it,” he said, annoyed.

“I’m sure you will,” Raleigh said. He wasn’t being sarcastic, but evidently Chuck took it that way, because he huffed and moved to push past Raleigh back to the living room.

Raleigh caught his elbow.

“What?” Chuck said, tugging unsuccessfully to free himself. He sneered. “Oi, what gives, Becket?”

Raleigh looked at him for a long, frozen minute. At his eyes. Then at his lips, which parted as he watched, frown lines slackening. When he glanced back up, he saw that Chuck’s eyes were intent on his own lips, kind of dazed and unfocused.

Raleigh swallowed.

“Not yet,” they said at the same time.

Raleigh released Chuck, who rushed off to the living room. He chugged a cup of Gatorade, trying unsuccessfully to dampen the heat that had settled deep in the pit of his stomach.

Not yet, Raleigh thought. But… soon, maybe?

 

Yancy showed up the day before the first game of the Quarterfinals, able to take a couple weeks off because football was in the off-season. He would have to miss the Conference Finals and the Cup Finals (on the off chance the Rangers made it that far, and that was a long-shot) but Raleigh was still glad to have his brother there for moral support, even if he wasn’t the starting goalie.

Yancy insisted on going out for frozen yogurt before bed, knowing that Raleigh would worry himself into insomnia if left to his own devices. Raleigh’s cup was mostly cubes of barely ripe fruit, and Yancy stole pieces of mango whenever Raleigh wasn’t paying attention, keeping him focused and distracted from dwelling.

On the walk back to the hotel, Yancy slung his arm over Raleigh’s shoulder, cheerfully pretending he needed the support because of his disabled leg, though Raleigh had seen him play touch football without batting an eye.

“Oh, little brother,” Yancy said, smiling. “I’ve got such fantastic plans for your day with the Cup. You think we could sneak it across the border into Mexico?”

Raleigh scoffed, and not only because Yancy was so full of shit, as if the Rangers were clear favorites for the Cup instead of the underdogs in every possible way. “You tell the ‘Hawks what finger you were gonna wear your ring on once you won the Super Bowl? If so, I gotta figure they let you get sacked on purpose, teach you a lesson.” Football players were, if anything, even more superstitious than hockey players. Raleigh could only imagine the look on their faces if Yancy had jinxed them like that.

“The ‘Hawks, no. The Broncos, yes.” Yancy was looking away, but Raleigh didn’t miss the suddenly serious tone to his voice.

“Oh yeah?” Raleigh snorted. “How’d that go for you?”

Yancy looked straight at him, eyebrow cocked. “They cheered,” he said. “I gave them something to strive for. Made it feel like something they could attain.”

Raleigh frowned. “Can’t help but notice you ain’t wearing a ring on your finger,” he said, trying not to sound defensive, and failing.

“Not yet,” Yancy granted. “But there’s always next year, yeah?”

Raleigh shrugged off the arm around his shoulder. “You aren’t subtle, you know.”

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Yancy said loftily.

“Right,” Raleigh said. “So you’re _not_ trying to emotionally prepare me for the loss because you’re worried I’ll have another breakdown and go back to my choking ways if I don’t win it all this year.”

Yancy looked cagey.

Raleigh shook his head. “I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna happen, but I can’t make any promises.” He led them into his hotel, not saying anything for the entire elevator ride up. Then, as he was unlocking the door, he said quietly, “Talk to me again after the playoffs, okay?”

“Of course,” said Yancy, equally quiet. “You know I will.”

Raleigh nodded.

 

Two weeks later, the playoffs began.

Raleigh had won every game he started since Chuck had thrown that one game, but his mediocre GAA and SV% shot down any chance of being started barring some kind of insane plummet in Sergio’s play. Raleigh was okay with that. Chuck’s gesture had started to shake him out of his slump, but he still wasn’t ready to hold the weight of the team’s success on his shoulders, not after five years of deep-seated insecurity.

If asked beforehand, he would have guessed that the Rangers would get to the second round of the Playoffs before being knocked off by a team with better defense. They would probably squeak past the first round due to their stacked offense, but everyone knew defense made playoff winners, so he didn’t have high hopes.

Which is why he was glad to be so wrong, when he found himself showing up for morning practice the day before the first Stanley Cup Finals game against the Nashville Predators.

It was Chuck who got them there. Chuck and Jin and Cheung, Tender and Newts and Manny. Even the defense picked up the slack, mostly Hulk and Lecter and Duke, who had shut down the first lines of every team they’d defeated.

It wasn’t Freezer, was the thing. He just wasn’t that good – not quick enough to trap the rebound, too easily rattled by soft goals. Raleigh knew he could be better, but…

But something stopped him from speaking up. His old fears came bubbling up – what if he _wasn’t_ good enough? Better, sure, but still not capable of shutting down the best offense in the league. He rationalized it by thinking he had too much history as a flake anyway, and that Coach Pentecost didn’t trust him to try even if he did offer himself as the starter, but he knew deep down that it was his own insecurity holding him back.

Chuck stared at him after morning practice, mouth twisting, eyes accusatory.

Raleigh looked away.

 

Raleigh wasn’t surprised when Coach Pentecost decided to play Freezer in Game 1. He was equally unsurprised when they lost 4-2. Sergio was nice and all, but the way he reacted to pressure…

He also wasn’t surprised that Coach Pentecost played Freezer in Game 2, or that the Rangers were down 3-1 at the end of the first, or that Raleigh was subbed in after a soft goal early in the second made it a 4-1 game.

They lost 4-3.

It was a disheartening loss for everyone else to have come so close only to fall short, but it sparked Raleigh’s drive. Apparently he could play against a team as offensively stacked as the Nashville Predators without flaking out. Almost two periods without letting in a goal wasn’t anything to scoff at.

Which is why he wasn’t surprised when Coach Pentecost announced he would start Game 3.

 

 _Seattle was a long time ago,_ Yancy’s text read. _Win this one for us, little bro_.

 

After the game, Raleigh sat hunched over in his pads, scowling down at his skates. Tendo came over and sat down next to him.

“It wasn’t your fault, Rals,” he said, resting his hand on Raleigh’s shoulder.

Raleigh shifted away, frowning.

“No, really. There’s no goalie in the league who could have blocked that shot.”

“I know that,” Raleigh said, quietly furious. “I know it wasn’t my fucking fault. I kept you fuckers _in_ that game, I know my stats.”

Tendo stared, mouth slightly open.

“I blocked over 50 shots, I got us to overtime scoreless. Believe me, I fucking know this one wasn’t on me. But if I’m gonna play my ass off like that, I need you guys to help me out.” His lip curled in a sneer. “I can’t win this alone just because you’re all tired of trying.”

“No one’s tired of trying,” Tendo said.

Raleigh scoffed. “Don’t give me that shit.”

Tendo sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know. Since when were you Mr. Motivated?” He sounded curious rather than accusatory, but Raleigh bristled anyway, scowling deep enough that Tendo’s eyes went wide and he pulled back. “Whoa. Forget I said anything.”

Raleigh grunted.

 

Before Game 4, the locker room was quiet. Raleigh looked around at the crestfallen, grim faces of his teammates as he suited up, finishing after all of them by virtue of his more complicated equipment. The whole room was silent and still.

Raleigh finished dressing.

“Hanners.” He nudged Chuck’s ankle with the toe of his skate.

Chuck looked up. “What?”

Raleigh nodded at the team. “They need a speech.”

Chuck sighed, looking down again. “I’ve given all my speeches. I’ve got nothing left.”

Raleigh frowned at him for a moment. Then he reached over, hand under Chuck’s chin, and tilted it up. Chuck didn’t struggle, just let Raleigh maneuver him so they met eye-to-eye.

And Chuck’s eyes were empty.

That fierce, fiery light was dim. There was none of the internal flame that kept his spirit alive; he may as well have kicked off his skates and gone home.

Chuck Hansen had given up.

And Raleigh felt something inside him flare to life.

 

“Your Stanley Cup Champions, the Nashville Predators.” Raleigh said, almost a murmur.

The room, already quiet, went silent as a grave.

“Stanley Cup winning captain Shea Slattern.” He looked around at the collective team coolly. “How’s it sound? You like that?”

Some of the guys shook their heads.

“Tough shit, because the way you’re playing, that’s what we’re gonna spend the next year listening to.” Raleigh shrugged. “There’ll be pictures of that asshole carrying _your_ Cup around New York. He’s from New York, you know? Can you imagine? Slattern wins the Cup and brings it to _your_ city? What do you think he’ll do with it? Bring it to Central Park? Take it shopping in SoHo?”

“We get it,” Newt grumbled.

“See, I don’t think you do.” Raleigh said, dangerously soft. “Because if you got that – if you _really_ got that, then you wouldn’t be playing as terribly as you are.”

Duke scowled at him. “What about you? You’re the goalie, it’s on you too.”

Raleigh recoiled for a moment. He took a deep breath. Funny thing, that he was still breathing. He smiled.

“You’re right,” he said. “And that’s gonna change. Here’s a promise that I’m going to make to you, and I don’t break promises. You ready for it?”

Zeke made a ‘go on’ motion with his gloved hand.

Raleigh leaned forward. “I’m gonna win you the Cup.”

Some of the guys squinted at him, confused and irritated.

He’d watched enough underdog-overcoming-adversity sports movies in his lifetime to know his role here. He stood up, pacing in front of them. “You assholes did not get this far to wipe out now. Are you shitting me?” His tone went snide, mocking. “You’re going to get swept in the Stanley Cup Finals? Tell you what, if being Eastern Conference Champs is good enough for you, then fine. Take your trophy and go the fuck home. But if you want more, if you want to win this, if you’re willing to work your ass off and _earn_ this, then fucking pull it together.”

He turned in a circle, meeting their eyes one by one, locking on and holding each for a few seconds before moving onto the next. “I will win this game for you. And when we get to game 5, I’ll win that one too. And I’ll win 6 and 7 also. But you have to help. You have to try. And I swear, _I swear this to you_ , if you try your fucking hardest, if you don’t hold anything back, then I’ll win you the Cup. But you have to try.” He spun in a circle. “So who’s with me?”

The cheering from the men shook the room.

“And who’s gonna be the Stanley Cup Champs in 2025?”

“The New York Rangers!” Newt whooped.

Raleigh cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Say it again, because once wasn’t enough!”

“The New York Rangers!” the men screamed in unison, loud enough to shake the room.

At the door, Stacker was smiling. He beckoned to Raleigh.

Raleigh put on a grin like a shark, a predator unto his own right. “Let’s go show that smug-ass prick Slattern what Stanley Cup Champions are made of.”

The guys poured out of the room, fresh energy coursing from them in waves.

But as Raleigh turned to join the rest of the team, a hand wrapped around his wrist, tight enough that he could feel it through his pads. He turned to find Chuck snarling in his face, “You’re so full of shit.”

“What?” Raleigh flinched back.

“You don’t have the right to act like we’re the ones holding you back. You don’t _deserve_ to act like our savior. You’ve never believed in us, and now I’m supposed to believe in you?” Chuck shook with rage. “Don’t pretend you’re the one who has faith.”

Raleigh swallowed hard. “Hanners, I can’t do this without you. Don’t drag me back down.”

“You don’t need my help dragging you down!” Chuck screamed. “You do just fine on your own.”

Anger flashed through Raleigh, bright and burning. “Fuck you, what about you, then? You gave up too!”

“I did not give up,” Chuck hissed.

“Prove it,” Raleigh said, shoving Chuck hard. “Play like someone who has the balls to win. The way you’ve been playing, you don’t deserve the Cup, and you sure as hell don’t deserve this team.”

For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far. Chuck stumbled back like he’d been struck, face pale. Then he straightened up, cold anger in his blazing eyes. He stalked out of the room.

“If you lose, he’ll never forgive you,” Stacker said from the door.

Raleigh picked up his helmet and looked down into it. “Then I’m not gonna lose,” he promised, and put it on.

 

Even after all that, it shouldn’t have happened. The odds were stacked against them, and the Predators were playing with the same goal and the same passion driving them. But, as it turned out, Stacker made a good choice, trading Adam Casey for Raleigh.

_“Here he comes shorthanded, Yamarashi, in alone, and a shot – Oh, what a right pad save by Becket. Off Yamarashi on a stone-cold breakaway. Are you kidding me with that right pad?”_

_“Nine out of ten at home – here’s a chance in front of the goal – Oh, what a save by Becket! So a huge save by Becket off Knifehead, and we are still scoreless.”_

_“Mutavore with him, Slattern with Mutavore to the net, there’s the pass – great save by Becket! Great play by the Predators but a better save by Raleigh Becket. What a save by Becket. Patric Mutavore just not able to elevate that puck up and over the pad.”_

“Phenomenal goaltending by Becket leads to a 2-0 win by the Rangers, and they’ve held off the Predators for one more day. The Nashville Predators 3, New York Rangers 1, as we move onto Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Finals.”

_“Go from Leatherback’s stick onto Otachi’s, Otachi delays, side of the net, puck is still loose. How did that not go in? Watch the paddle, as they call the hockey stick the goaltenders use. He gets it down – oh my goodness what a save by Raleigh Becket.”_

_“Long shot and a sprawling save on the ricochet! Scunner’s shot went right to Slattern and Becket made the save. This one from Raleigh Becket – Slattern thought he was gonna tie the game. Spectacular stop by the New York netminder.”_

_“Raiju shoots, stop Becket, the rebound – Yamarashi jamming at it in front – what a save! Unbelievable stop right there by Raleigh Becket! Wow! So they can say they had an empty net to poke that rebound in and Raleigh Becket came in from the right side of the net, I thought ‘oh, left side, wide open.’ That’s the save of the series, right there.”_

“And the Rangers win another, putting the record at 3-2 Predators. I gotta say, we’ve seen some standout goaltending from Raleigh Becket. With the star forwards Hansen, Wei, and Gottlieb scoring to start off the game and strong defense from Kaidanovsky and Chau, the Predators are having trouble catching up with the Rangers in these last two games. We’ll see how things shape up in Game 6, which will be on Friday in Nashville.”

_“You bail out your teammates, and have to bail them out again – here’s Onibaba, backhander – glove save Becket, as he flashes some leather and denies Onibaba yet again. Trying to backhand him, glove hand top shelf, and what a save by Raleigh Becket.”_

_“Up the middle, Mike Scissure, shoots, save, rebound and save! Slattern gets stopped by Becket. I don’t know how he did it! He didn’t see it but he got the arm on him. I thought for sure Slattern had a goal there to tie the game. May have handcuffed Slattern a little bit so he couldn’t get the puck over the arm, but give credit to the goaltender there, he made sure he was not giving up on the play.”_

_“Leatherback shoots, save Becket, here it comes with a wraparound try by Otachi, and Becket got there in time! Oh my. Becket… Two big stops. Kaidanovsky and the stick of Becket prevented it, and then the big hand of Becket swatted away the rebound chance.”_

“Astonishing, but true. Three games ago, I wouldn’t have believed it, but the New York Rangers have tied the series at 3-3. These Finals will move onto Game 7 in Nashville, and it’s hard to say who will walk away the victor. The Predators started out strong but have been flagging against the renewed efforts of the Rangers, led by surprise hero Raleigh Becket. It’ll be interesting to ask the Rangers after the Finals what changed their game so much between Games 3 and 4.”

 

The guys were laughing when Raleigh left the shower, tussling like puppies in the locker room. “Raleigh fucking Becket!” Duke cheered as he walked by, and the cry picked up, bouncing around the room in surround sound.

Raleigh just waved it off, grinning.

Tendo stopped him on the way to his locker. “Oh man, did you see Slattern’s face after the game? I thought he was gonna haul off and punch you right there in the hallway.”

Raleigh laughed. “Is that why you have Hulk tagging after me? I gotta say, I wouldn’t mess with anyone who had him as a bodyguard.”

Tendo grinned, slapped his shoulder, and let him go.

Chuck was waiting there, legs sprawled out, grinning wide. His smile always made Raleigh’s heart thump in his chest, but now, shining white in contrast to his ginger beard, it threatened to weaken his knees. He flashed a newspaper at Raleigh. “You know they’re talking Conn Smythe for you?”

Raleigh raised his eyebrows, bypassing the newspaper in favor of getting dressed. “The fuck? I’ve only played four games in the whole playoffs. No way I’m MVP.”

“Who else?” Chuck’s tone was disconcertingly frank.

“Don’t jinx Rals, man,” said Newts, passing by.

“Not this foolish superstition again,” Manny said, sniffing.

“No, I’m serious!” Newts protested. “You don’t mess with a pitcher when he’s throwing a perfect game.”

“Yeah, and you also gotta wear your socks inside out and spit on the opposing team’s logo in the locker room,” Chuck said, gently teasing.

Newts blushed. “Well, that’s just common sense,” he mumbled.

“’Sides, Rals isn’t doing magic, here. This isn’t just a stroke of freak luck, it’s talent,” Chuck said. Raleigh glanced up and found Chuck’s eyes on him, fixated and bright. “You couldn’t break his focus if you tried.”

Raleigh thought about this. Shrugged. “Sounds right,” he said.

Chuck grinned.

 

The night before the game, Raleigh was feeling oddly calm. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to hit. But it didn’t.

Maybe, he pondered, he hadn’t been bluffing. Maybe subconsciously he had known, while giving his speech before Game 4, that he could do it. That he was good enough to carry the team on his shoulders, that he could singlehandedly force Game 7 by the sheer power of his will.

But that wasn’t it, at least, not _all_ of it.

Maybe it was Chuck.

Maybe he couldn’t stand to see those eyes so bleak. He would fight with everything he had in him, to get Chuck back. And what he had in him… Well, he guessed it was enough.

And Chuck was back, without a doubt. His fiery speeches bookended their games again, his aggression and ambition so strong as to be infectious –

“So we’re going out there tonight and we’re beating the shit out of them. We’re not playing nice. We’re not skating away from fights. We’re gonna break some fucking faces! Because I will not lose the Stanley Cup to motherfucking Shea Slattern! Do you hear me? Get out there and make them bleed!”

– and his eyes blazed with inner fire once more.

At dinner, Raleigh had seen one of the rookies poking at his meal, looking ill. Before he could ask what was wrong, Chuck had stepped in. He hadn’t even asked why the rookie wasn’t eating, just started talking, soft and low, slinging his arm over the rookie’s shoulder.

“One shift at a time, ok?” he had said. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m not asking you to earn the fucking Conn Smythe out there – we’re gonna trust Rals with that one, right? – and I’m not even asking you to score. I just want you to play one shift at a time. You know the game, you know the plays. And before you start to freak out, think about me. I know my hockey, right? So trust me, because I believe in you, and I wouldn’t lie about hockey.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lecter had said.

“So believe in me, because I believe in you. Think about me. And think about shoving the fucking Stanley Cup in Shea Slattern’s smug face.”

The speech had worked on the rookie same as it had on Raleigh, leaving the words ‘we’re gonna trust Rals with that one’ echoing in Raleigh’s head. Chuck really believed in him. Chuck thought he could do it. And fuck it, he was going to. No way he was disappointing Chuck, not after Chuck worked so hard to get him there.

A knock on the door disrupted Raleigh from his thoughts, and he opened it to find Chuck on the other side. “Hey,” he said, surprised.

“Hey,” Chuck said, doing an awkward foot shuffle that Raleigh couldn’t help but find endearing. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” Raleigh stepped to the side.

They settled on opposite sides of the bed. Chuck pulled a pillow into his lap and fidgeted with the hem. “So…”

“Freaking out, huh?” Raleigh asked, smiling.

“A little.” Chuck ducked his head. “You?”

“What happened to all those big words?” Raleigh said, pulling Chuck over with a hand on the back of his neck. He knocked his shoulder against Chuck’s. “You were right, you know. One shift at a time. Trust yourself.”

“But…”

“Hey, hey,” Raleigh whispered, heart melting at the waver in Chuck’s voice. “You believe in me, right? You know I’m gonna win this for you, right?”

Chuck nodded, not questioning it for a moment. Raleigh – Raleigh loved that.

He grabbed Chuck’s hand and squeezed it. “So you were right. Believe in me, because I believe in you. You don’t have to win the Conn Smythe. I’ve got that on lock, don’t even bother trying.” He smiled. “Just back me up, okay? Score if you can, let the other guys do it if the right bounces don’t come your way. And if you screw up, I’ve got your back. I’m not going to let you fail.” Raleigh brought their foreheads together. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Chuck said.

Chuck had given Raleigh so much, had given his life meaning when he thought it couldn’t be done. Now Raleigh wanted to give something back. “Close your eyes, ok?”

Chuck closed his eyes obediently.

“When you lift that Cup above your head for the first time,” Raleigh said, hushed, “everything’s going to seem really quiet and out of sync. It weighs what, 15 kilos?”

“Fifteen and a half,” Chuck corrected.

Raleigh rolled his eyes. “Fifteen and a half. But it’s going to be light as air, because you’ll be flying high by then. Your feet aren’t gonna touch the ground. And it’s gonna be amazing, because it’s your team, you got us here. You are our captain. It’s your Cup, and you deserve it.”

Chuck’s eyes snapped open. “You’re the one that got us to Game 7,” he said, accusatory, like he was honestly offended Raleigh wasn’t giving himself any credit.

“But you got me to try,” Raleigh said, almost a breath.

Chuck blushed.

“When you win that game…” Raleigh paused. He curled his hand around Chuck’s neck again, but left it there this time, heavy and warm. “I’m going to give you everything.”

Chuck looked at him with those piercing, intent eyes. “You know what you’re promising?”

“I do,” Raleigh said.

“Alright then.” Chuck says in an undertone. “Let’s win Game 7.”

Raleigh brushed his lips against Chuck’s, light as a butterfly’s wings, their beards rasping together. “Let’s.”

 

 _I wanna drink champagne out of the Cup on your day with it,_ Yancy’s text read.

 

Chuck lifted the Cup first as the captain. His eyes were shining like stars – Raleigh couldn’t believe he thought something so cliché, but it was true – and his grin was almost uncontained by his face. His arms were shaking, and Raleigh saw a few people skate forward as if to catch the Cup in case he dropped it from the weight, but Raleigh saw that his entire _body_ shook, trembling with the depth of emotion that rocked the entire world.

Chuck skated around the rink in a lap, camera flashes going off all around him, and pressed a kiss to it with reverence in his lips. Then he skated over to Raleigh.

And Raleigh – Raleigh wasn’t surprised, necessarily. Everyone knew he was going to win the Conn Smythe, that this victory wouldn’t have happened without him.

But he hadn’t lifted a trophy since the Calder in his rookie year, and for one single, crystalline moment, he _knew_ that he didn’t deserve it. This was too much pressure and too much credit given to a has-been who had broken when his disabled brother refused to, who had such incredible talent that he couldn’t believe in himself.

But Chuck smiled and held out the Cup. “She’s ours,” he said. “Take it and pass it on.”

And Raleigh looked around, gaze sweeping over Newts, who was crying, and Manny, who was pretending not to. Tender, who beamed at him, and Aleks, blowing kisses at his wife up in the audience. Lecter was mocking Newts and Jin and Cheung were high-fiving and Gags was pumping his fist in the air, and everyone was smiling. Right. This was his team.

He backed them up, and they led him forward.

So he took the Cup and lifted it.

Funny how that worked, he thought.

Fifteen and a half kilograms, and it felt light as air.

 

Chuck had the prettiest fucking bruises. His split lip was a goddamn masterpiece. The red, raw scrapes up his jaw line were pure poetry.

Raleigh felt kind of gross thinking it, though. He sat and watched Chuck give the post-game interview, glowing with elation, and tried not to get hard thinking about those broken lips spread around his cock. It didn’t work.

“Just one more minute, Mr. Becket,” said Mako, looking almost as happy as he felt. “I am sorry to make you sit for so long in your goalie pads, it must be uncomfortable.”

Raleigh used the towel around his neck to mop up some of the sweat on his forehead. “It’s fine, I need a minute to rest anyway. That was a fucking stressful 60 minutes.”

“I can imagine,” Mako said. She cocked her head at him and smiled.

“What?” he asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing,” Mako said, still smiling. “I’ve just never seen you look this happy before.”

He blushed and ducked his head. “I’ve never won the Stanley Cup before,” he offered.

“Not to mention the Conn Smythe,” she reminded him.

“Right.” He nodded.

When he looked up, he saw Chuck watching him. Their eyes met and Chuck smiled before having his attention jerked back to the interview by a reporter.

He had never won the Stanley Cup before, it was true, and that was at least half of Raleigh’s euphoria. But the other half was sitting ten feet away in sweaty pads with bruises all over his face. Because Chuck was Raleigh’s, and that changed his entire world.

That was  _Raleigh’s_. All of that spirit, that grace, that talent and power and passion. Men and women across the country could look at Chuck and want him for so many reasons, but Raleigh was the one who had him.

And his  _body_. Jesus. Washboard abs and dick-sucking lips weren’t even half of it.

Raleigh tilted back his head and closed his eyes, feeling pretty fucking good about his life.

He was broken from his reverie as a body settled next to his on the bench, and he opened his eyes and found Chuck grinning at him. “They’ll get to you in like five minutes, they need to do some technical camera-like things,” he said.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Raleigh said, nudging Chuck’s shoulder with his. “What are you staring at?”

“I was just thinking,” Chuck said in an undertone, leaning in so only Raleigh could hear, “how there are 29 GMs across the continent wishing they had picked you up in free agency.”

Raleigh blushed.

“Twenty-nine teams who would  _kill_  to have you between the pipes for them.” Chuck lowered his voice further. “And about 19 million people who are gonna have dirty dreams about you tonight.”

“Where’d you get that number?” Raleigh asked.

“The crew just told me that’s how many people across Canada and the US watched the game,” Chuck said.

“Nice,” Raleigh grinned. “I was actually just thinking about the same thing.”

Chuck raised his eyebrows.

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have gotten my head out of my ass and stopped self-sabotaging on the ice, and how it's all due to you.” Raleigh said, hushed. “And how I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever to get you naked in my bed.”

“Later,” Chuck breathed out. “We’ve got a Stanley Cup victory to celebrate first.”

“Later,” Raleigh promised, and went to do his interview.

 

Later turned out to be the next day, as they were both too exhausted from the game and celebrations to do anything more than collapse into bed and sleep for 16 hours.

Raleigh had paused by his hotel room door, and Chuck just grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away towards his own room without asking. They slept together on the single bed, cramped and comfortable. Raleigh woke up to Chuck stirring underneath him, and shifted to let him out before falling back asleep.

He woke up for good when Chuck climbed on top of him, damp and warm like the steam from the shower had followed him out. He grinned when Raleigh blinked his eyes open, holding up a razor.

“Is this the part where you murder me in my sleep?” Raleigh murmured. “Because I gotta say, I did not see that one coming.”

“We’re gonna shave that monstrosity off your face, mate,” Chuck said.

“How come I have to shave and you don’t?” Raleigh settled back, resting his hands on Chuck’s thighs. He squeezed down.

“Because I look hot with a beard, and you look like someone took wet fabric and threw sand on it,” Chuck said.

The first half of the sentence was true. Raleigh wasn’t sure about the latter. He blinked. “That’s… oddly vivid imagery.”

“Raleigh,” Chuck said, drawing it out disapprovingly.

Raleigh laughed. “One more day, okay?” He rolled them over, sliding into the V of Chuck’s thighs. “Makes me feel like a Stanley Cup Champion. Every time I look in the mirror, it reminds me of how far I’ve come and how I got here. Who got me here.”

He could tell Chuck hadn’t thought of it that way, and he watched, amused, as Chuck clearly tried to think of a way to backtrack without admitting he had been wrong. His pride would never let him say ‘changed my mind, keep the beard,’ and Raleigh waited patiently to see what kind of bullshit he came up with.

It didn’t disappoint. “Fine. If looking like an albino Tony Stark is so important to you, s’not my funeral,” Chuck said, dropping the razor to the side.

Raleigh snorted.

“Go brush your teeth. We’ve got plans,” Chuck said, rubbing his bare foot over Raleigh’s calf.

Raleigh didn’t need to be told twice.

 

When Chuck pushed into Raleigh for the first time, he froze with his dick halfway in, looking stunned and aroused and kind of scared. Raleigh felt a little bad, because he was Chuck’s first gay experience, clearly the poor kid hadn’t known what to expect.

“How is this not hurting you?” Chuck gritted out. “It’s – so goddamn tight, Jesus.”

“Your unintentional dirty talk is very affecting,” Raleigh tried to drawl, though it came out kind of strained.

Chuck heard the tight note in his voice, and started to pull out. “I knew it, shit,” he said. “I’m hurting you.”

“Hey now,” Raleigh said, eyes flying open. He wrapped his legs around Chuck’s waist to keep him there. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Chuck stilled, expression so uncertain and sweet that Raleigh had to kiss him, lazy and deep, and for so long that he could feel beard burn rising on his visible skin.

“You’re not hurting me,” he said. “You just gotta give me a minute to adjust, yeah?”

Chuck nodded.

“More kissing, that’ll help,” Raleigh said, pulling him back down.

Chuck kissed like he played, Raleigh thought. A strange contradiction of wild and controlled, precise and feral. He used his teeth a lot, so it was a good thing Raleigh had a thing for that. He also let out this little growl when Raleigh sucked on his tongue, which Raleigh found weirdly hot.

“Alright,” he said breathily, pulling away. “Go for it. Start slow.”

Chuck did.

“Not that slow,” Raleigh laughed. “You know what, here.” He rolled his hips, starting up a steady rhythm. “Follow my lead.”

Chuck did, and true to form, he caught on fast. Once he had it down, Raleigh swung up his legs so they were hooked over Chuck’s shoulders, and cursed as the new angle pushed his buttons in all the right ways.

“You’re gonna strain something,” Chuck said, curling his hands around Raleigh’s ass.

Raleigh laughed. “NHL goalie, remember? I can twist my body in ways you can’t imagine.”

Chuck paused for a moment, likely thinking about all of the stretching exercises he’d seen Raleigh do. “Oh,” he said in an exhale. “Right. Forgot about that.”

“You forgot I was a goalie?” Raleigh teased.

Chuck shifted himself, pushed back in, harder now. Less fluid, more of a shove. Raleigh choked on a moan. “No,” he said, all hoarse and deep. “I remember that, believe me.”

Something about his tone piqued Raleigh’s interest. “What’s that mean?” He bit his lip when Chuck brushed his prostate, and tried to make a noise of encouragement though all that came out was a stifled gasp.

Chuck seemed to get it, though, positioning himself to hit that sweet spot with every thrust. “Sometimes when I look at you out there during practice, blocking all those shots, all I can think about is getting your dick out and swallowing you down.”

Raleigh swallowed.

“There’s so many layers, I know, but I wanna just tear through them, rip open the ties and tug it all down so I can get my mouth on you right there on the ice,” Chuck said, speeding up his pace.

The idea of it – It was wonderfully easy to imagine, and Raleigh trembled.

Chuck made a startled noise when Raleigh shoved him back and flipped himself over onto his knees and elbows. “Wha –”

“Do it, fuck me,” Raleigh growled over his shoulder. “I wanna see how hard you can go, Hansen. All that weight training’s gotta pay off, right?”

Chuck lined himself up. “Can I really –?”

“Come on, captain,” Raleigh said. “Take the shot, it’s right there waiting for you.”

Chuck slammed in, rocking Raleigh forward on his knees and making them both curse. He set a brutal pace. “I was gonna make a pun about wristing it, but –” Chuck said, voice strained.

Raleigh burst out laughing, though it quickly turned into a moan when Chuck found the angle he needed to make Raleigh see stars. He braced himself against the headboard and shoved back, spreading his knees wider to accommodate Chuck’s bulk between them.

“You know, when I used to jack off looking at your ESPN spread, this isn’t – _fuck_ – what I imagined,” he managed more-or-less evenly.

“Oh yeah?” Chuck huffed a laugh. “And what exactly did you imagine, Rals?” The bedframes squeaked in a rhythm as he pounded into Raleigh, matched by the harsh cadence of their breaths. Raleigh’s whole body trembled. He didn’t think he’d ever been fucked like this before.

He gave a low rumble of pleasure. “Kinda thought you’d be a sex kitten, with that pout. All coy and shy.”

“Aw, fuck you,” Chuck said. He wrapped his hand around Raleigh’s cock and jerked it roughly, which wasn’t as much of a deterrent from continuing his mockery as Chuck apparently thought it was. All the while, he kept up his steady pace – and as it turned out, those muscles weren’t just for show, because he fucked with a force that drove the air from Raleigh’s lungs.

“I though you’d be a biter, too,” Raleigh said. He writhed under Chuck’s hands.

Chuck’s breathing was labored, his thrusts going jerky. Raleigh could feel sweat on the tips of his hair as he sank his teeth down on Raleigh’s shoulder. “You don’t know I’m not,” Chuck said lowly.

“I guess that’s – _ah!_ – true,” Raleigh said, embarrassingly high-pitched. His entire body clenched when Chuck twisted his wrist, tightening around Chuck’s cock.

Chuck groaned. “I’m gonna –”

“Yeah, do it, captain,” Raleigh said breathily.

He could feel the rush of heat as Chuck came inside him, and knew that he wasn’t going to last much longer, his balls tightening up, body taut. Shit, so close, he was so fucking close.

Chuck wove his fingers through Raleigh’s hair and pulled. “I jerked off watching your fucking _draft_ ,” he rasped in Raleigh’s ear. “Been dreaming about this since I was 14 years old.”

Raleigh came like that, all over Chuck’s hand and the bedspread, collapsing forward as he spilled sticky liquid over his belly. He panted, all his carefully maintained muscles feeling like taffy, deliciously sore.

“God, Hansen,” he said. “That was – fuck, you’re good.”

“Huh,” Chuck said thoughtfully. “That’s _exactly_ what I imagined you’d say.”

Raleigh smacked him, but he was laughing when Chuck pulled him into a kiss.

 

[Epilogue]

The day Raleigh signed his six-year contract with the Rangers, Chuck surprised him by flying Yancy up from Denver and ordering an enormous spread of food for them all to share, eating and laughing and talking until four o’clock in the morning.

When Chuck was in the kitchen preparing the hot cider, Yancy turned to Raleigh and punched him in the shoulder. “He’s good for you,” he said, grinning. “Keeps you on your toes.”

“That’s a diplomatic way of saying ‘he’s a complete jackass,’” Raleigh said, smiling as he drank from his Gatorade.

Yancy laughed. “Not denying that. But still. You really think you’d be here if it wasn’t for him?”

“Course not,” Raleigh said. Waited a beat. “We had to sign a lease together when we moved in.”

Yancy groaned. “You know what I mean.”

Raleigh grinned. “Yep. And?”

Yancy punched him again.

Raleigh’s smile softened, sweetened. He shook his head. “I know I wouldn’t be here. I’d probably be in Phoenix or Vancouver or something, where they’re desperate enough to take whatever washed-up loser they can get. But…”

He looked around – at the framed picture of him dumping a Stanley Cup-ful of champagne onto Chuck’s head, the pile of dirty jerseys and compression pants and socks in the corner of the living room (gross), the cases of protein shakes on top of the fridge, the dog bed in the corner and the Denver Broncos scarf hanging from a doorknob.

He looked at Yancy. Tilted his head to the side. “Seattle was a long time ago,” he said. “Hanners just reminded me of that.”

“Yeah,” Yancy said, smiling back. He craned his neck towards the kitchen, called, “Where’s that fucking cider, o’ prodigal wunderkindy future of the NHL?”

“Oi, fuck off,” Chuck hollered back.

Raleigh laughed.

The whole house smiled of cider and caramel.

 


End file.
